American Terrorist (The Rayna Tan Action Thrillers Book 1) (14 page)

“Ain’t nothing fancy but it does its job well. Just like that dumb rabbit. It goes and goes and goes.”

With experience gained from constant haggling in Middle Eastern bazaars, the 1990 Ford E-150 van was purchased for less than two thousand bucks. Both sides of the purchase were happy. The seller couldn’t sell the damned thing for three months. Casey’s opinion? The vehicle was newer and in better shape than any of the vehicles the American Muslim Militia used.

Two young people. One vehicle. One of the great cities of the world that neither had ever been to. Three thousand bucks in cash. A recipe for disaster in the making? Not for Casey and Nabil. They had seen what happened to people who pissed off Ahmed, so they were frugal. But this was San Francisco and there was a whole lot to see and do without breaking the bank. They gawked and pointed as they cruised over the Golden Gate Bridge, then to San Francisco’s Chinatown. Interest turned to disgust when they saw the open homosexuality of the City by the Bay. Seeing the flagrant use of drugs and drug dealing in the Tenderloin and Haight Ashbury areas convinced them of the importance and necessity of their new mission in America.
 

“They need us here, Casey,” said Nabil as they stared out to Alcatraz Island from Fisherman’s Wharf.

“The whole damn world needs a shakeup,” agreed Casey. “Imagine. We are part of that change. Something I always wanted. The system is so screwed up.”

“Would you be willing to die for it, though?”

“Hell, yeah. Anything worth living for is worth dying for.”

The two bumped fists. Climbing back into the van, they took off down the highway for a couple of hours before taking one of those minor roads that seemingly led to nowhere before eventually turning off onto a gravel road for about half a mile. Casey pointed ahead to a narrow road that was almost hidden because of the overgrowth of brush.

The van turned in, easily crushing the greenery, then there was another short but bumpy ten-minute ride until they reached their destination. Finally they arrived at three abandoned wood cabins that decades ago belonged to some hippie commune. After the flower children tired of the countercultural life, they became people with mortgages, car payments and kids in college.

Because it had not been used for decades, there was only a very minor mention of it on some obscure website. However, when Casey saw it, he thought it would be perfect if it still existed.

It did still exist and it was perfect. It was close enough to civilization that anything they needed would be readily accessible. It was central enough that either Canada or Mexico was a day’s drive away. It was remote enough that they could assemble and try out the explosives they would assemble. Its old cabins could easily house a dozen people.

“Hey, Hippieville is gonna be great. And it’s free,” Nabil exclaimed.

“Tomorrow, we start work,” said Casey as he chugged down his sixth beer in the past hour.

“It’s about friggin’ time,” cackled Nabil.

***

“You want change; you have to be part of the change. You must be prepared to sacrifice yourself, to wage war on the enemy on his battlefield, to kill the infidels. This isn’t just me saying this. This is what warriors of Islam have been doing for centuries. Strike terror into the heart of the unbeliever.”

Worm had heard stuff like this a thousand times during his ten years in Santa Domingo California State Penitentiary. Truth be told, he thought that religious crap was all the same, whether it came out of the mouth of a mullah or a minister or a monk. But he desperately wanted out of jail and there was little chance of his twenty-five-year sentence for murder being reduced without seeming like he was truly reformed and repentant.

Kissing ass and playing pretend paid off—he’d gotten out way early. Trouble was, by now all his old contacts were dead or in jail, so he was hanging out with another couple of new releases, Kuramoto the Jap and a scraggly white ex-con, “Lennie the Leech.” He didn’t like either of them much in prison and he didn’t much like them now but, as the old saying went, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” Which was also the reason the trio agreed to meet up with Casey. Worm sucked up to Casey online, figuring he might be an easy mark for a few bucks, which Worm knew he’d need when he got out.
 

Worm, Lennie and Kuramoto were typical of terrorist recruits from prison. They were products of generational poverty, were virtually illiterate and were early abusers of alcohol and drugs. Before they hit their teens, they were already tagged undesirable and unreformable. Petty offenses grew more and more brazen and, by the time they were old enough to drink in any state, they were already destined to be lifetime “in and outers”—a repeating cycle of being in prison, then out. In prison, then out. The only question in their lives was when one of the “in” times became permanent. That was inevitable because their crimes were getting bolder and bolder. No longer interested in simple B&Es (break and enters), they expanded into drug-dealing, pimping, robbery and assault.
 

And murder. After all, their environment was that of “kill or be killed.” Ten years ago, Worm snuffed a gangbanger that tried to snatch a freebie from one of his ladies. Five years before that, Kuramoto accidentally on purpose stabbed to death a dealer who gave him some bad stuff. Lennie went in at about the same time as Kuramoto. He was in a drug-induced stupor when a murderer put a gun in his hand after he shot an old lady who tried to resist when he snatched her purse.

They all pleaded innocent but, in each case, evidence was more than sufficient to send them away. Initially, none of the three cared enough to really consider the meaning of a lifetime of incarceration. After a few years, though, it began to sink in. The worse part of it was a life-sucking routine of seemingly meaningless activity where helping with the laundry was considered a job worth aspiring to. More interested in escaping boredom than being religious, they started attending Muslim worship services at the prison.

The imam, like many prison chaplains, was a radical Muslim, full of hatred for America and the “system.” His visits became the highlight of their weeks, and the Friday services were where Worm, Kuramoto and Lennie met. Within six months, all three had converted and began hanging with each other, as best as one can in prison. After eight years, all three of them had no more friends on the outside, so they used their internet time to peruse radical jihadist sites. For some reason, prison officials preferred them to the porn sites, which they would rather have gone to.

Somehow, in his cyberspace wanderings, Worm found Casey. He thought Casey was an ex-con Muslim imam and bonded quickly with the supposed holy man. Little did he know that Casey was a twenty-something kid in Syria. After all, Casey knew a lot about prison life, difficulties of getting out and the state of Hell America was in. If something was going to change, there needed to be a revolution and Worm wanted to be part of it. He persuaded Casey to write letters on his behalf, lobbying for his release.

That was easy for Casey to do because the young radicalist was sure nothing could get a beast like Worm out. No one was more surprised than Casey when Worm told him that his lobbying efforts worked. Originally, Casey spun a lie, thinking he would never have to meet the con but, once circumstances changed, he knew he was going to have to man up. In actuality, Casey’s letters formed only a small part of Worm’s release. More pressing was the enormous overcrowding of California prisons—officials were looking for any reason to give early release so that space could be made.

Whatever the reason, things were about to change for them all. Real fast.

***

Outside the prison walls, an old white van pulled up and a kid jumped out. “Hey, you Worm?”

“Yeah, who’s asking?” snarled the stocky black man, irritated that this punk knew who he was.

The kid stuck out his hand. “I’m Casey. Great to meet you. And you must be Lennie and Kuramoto.”

“Must be,” sniffed Lennie.

You gotta be joking. This was a baby
was the thought of each one of these prison-hardened men.
 

“Nice ride,” snorted Worm with thinly veiled contempt. “Thought you’d be coming in a Caddie.”

“Next time, bro. Hop in. We’re ready to rock and roll.”

Kuramoto glanced at the passenger seat and saw a brown guy that was maybe even younger than the arrogant punk in front of him. “Hold on. I ain’t going with no kiddy brigade,” said the Jap.

With electric speed, Casey whipped a small pistol out of his pocket and fired at Kuramoto, missing his ear by less than half an inch. “What you say, asshole?” asked Casey cockily as Nabil stepped out of the van.

“It’s gonna be a slice,” said Worm as he, Kuramoto and Lennie eyed Nabil coming toward them.

“Who’s the spic?” asked Lennie, nodding at Nabil.

“I ain’t no Mexican. I’m Filipino. My name’s Nabil,” retorted the young terrorist.

“Same difference. You ain’t American.”

With the same lightning speed as Casey, Nabil picked up Lennie, did a single whirl like a hammer thrower, and hurled the bony piece of white trash at Worm and Kuramoto, knocking both men down like bowling pins.

“Damn right I ain’t American. I’m a thousand times better than you f*ers.”

Lennie pulled out a shiv, leapt up and ran at Nabil. This homemade knife with a sharpened Plexiglas blade and tape-wrapped handle had kept the weasely leech alive in prison. As Lennie plunged the dagger at Nabil’s chest, the Filipino grabbed Lennie’s wrist and gripped it tight, challenging the Leech to break free. “Come on. You a man or not?”

Lennie struggled hard but couldn’t move as Nabil squeezed all the harder. Feeling the circulation in his arm cut off, Lennie finally succumbed and called out, “You’re the man.”

Nabil let go and sneered. “Loser.”

Casey clapped sarcastically. “Now that we got business done, are you going join us or you want to take off now? Couldn’t care less what you decide.”
 

“We’ll hang,” said Worm, shrugging.

Casey motioned with his head for them to hop into the van.
 

***

An hour and a half later, with bellies full of burgers, fries, beers and cokes, Casey announced, “Time to go shopping.”

The crew picked up a load of tools and fertilizer products from Home Depot. Next stop was Costco, where they bought enough food and beer to keep a group of ten men satisfied for a month.
 

All the while, Worm was making calls on a burner phone, trying to pick up where he left off a dozen years ago. Some, when they found out who was calling, hung up. A couple told him they had gone straight, but most were dead or in jail. Those that were still in the business had stopped long ago using the phone numbers Worm had, but persistence finally paid off. He connected with someone who didn’t hang up on him right away. Even though he didn’t have the goods, one call led to another and to another.

Less than four hours after they had been released from prison, three newly freed cons were back on the street with access to half a dozen AK-47s, a couple of Sig Sauers and a shitload of ammo.

“God, I love America,” shouted Nabil, waving his assault weapon in the air.

Then it was time for a quick beer before continuing to their destination where Casey and Nabil could teach the new members some of the bombmaking skills they had learned in the desert.

In one day, a new terrorist cell with enough firepower to kill every kid in a small public school and enough explosive materials to blow up the school afterward was fully operational. For less than ten thousand bucks. And that included the vehicle to bring them there.

Time to wake up, America.

Chapter 15
 

Rayna slept solidly for the fifteen-hour flight to Iraq. Not because she needed to but, after seven years in the military and the last few months as a field operative with Fidelitas, she knew that sleep, if it was available at all, would be at a premium for however long she was in this region she had hoped she would never see again.

When the Fidelitas jet arrived on the smooth, soaked tarmac on one of the few rainy days in recent memory, a familiar bumping motion woke Rayna. She looked outside, expecting to see the modern new Irbil airport but was surprised that it was the old one she had landed on when she was first deployed to Iraq years before.

As soon as she got out, she realized why this airfield was chosen—it wasn’t used very much anymore, so processing the plane’s arrival was a piece of cake.

When the doors finally opened, waiting for her was Boom Boom. She stepped off to a huge bear hug.
 

“Isn’t that sexual harassment?” she asked coyly.

“Maybe in the military but here, it’s a prelude of things to come,” winked Boom Boom. “And, if you think I’m bad, it gets worse. I’ve got a dozen horny bastards working with me who haven’t seen wives or girlfriends for months. Not to mention the ones who are so despicable that hookers don’t want their business...”

Rayna kissed Boom Boom on the cheek. In her seven years in general and Special Forces, she had been asked on two thousand dates, been sexually harassed by two hundred of her “colleagues,” and had a few dozen losers try to rape her. “I love you, too, Boom Boom.” While her lips were still on his face, with the speed of an ocelot, she wrapped her right arm around his chest, took two steps to his left, planting one foot behind his right leg, the other behind his left. Carrying him with her right arm, she flipped him over onto his butt.
 

“Ow!” yelled the big man in mock pain. “You play dirty.”

“Most guys like it rough.” Rayna pulled him up. “Come on. We got a job to do.”

The two helped local aid workers and other FME staff jam-pack three dilapidated panel trucks. FME could easily afford better but then the vehicles would be obvious targets in the lawless desert.
 

FME’s other passenger piped up. “Hi, I’m Dr. Humphries and I’m going to be administering medicine and working with some local physicians. There’s more than a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of medicine in each truck. Maybe we should get back-up for protection. We used to do that with Doctors without Borders.”